The Highwayman
by penny4him
Summary: Jarlaxle amuses himself by becoming a highwayman for a few moons, but it was never his intention to fall in love.
1. Jack & Bess

_The recognizable characters appearing in this story are copyright by Wizards of the Cost, Inc. This story is written for entertainment purposes only; no challenge to the copyright holders is intended, neither should any be inferred._

A/N: This story is an adaptation of the 1906 poem _The Highwayman_by Alfred Noyes. If you've never read the poem, read the story first, or else there will be SPOILERS galore! Secondly, pistols and muskets are extremely rare in the Forgotten Realms fantasy setting, but not entirely unknown. Followers of Gond the Wonderbringer have been known to make and use such weapons. Without further ado...

THE HIGHWAYMAN

Chapter 1: "Jack" & Bess

"Splendid, if I do say so myself," Jarlaxle proclaimed, striking a pose before the full-length mirror he had procured somewhere.

Entreri barely glanced up from sharpening his dagger. "You look ridiculous," he muttered.

"What was that, my friend?" Jarlaxle had heard him perfectly well, but he did so enjoy goading the assassin.

Entreri fixed him with a glare that normally had the effect of turning people's blood to ice. "I said you look ridiculous."

Jarlaxle smiled, unperturbed, and went back to studying his reflection in the looking-glass. The black tricorn hat _would_ be more dressed up with a _diatryma_ feather, but he supposed it would have to do as it was. His coat was wine-red in color, and made from the finest velvet the local taylor had been able to procure. A bunch of white lace at his throat contrasted nicely with the red color of the coat. Jarlaxle was particularly fond of his brown doe-skin breeches, as they fit perfectly and couldn't be surpassed for comfort, but the most fashionable part of his costume had to be his boots. Made of black leather, the boots reached all the way up to the thigh, but didn't inhibit his movements in the least.

Satisfied with his appearance, Jarlaxle buckled on his weapon belt, which held two highly polished pistols - a recent acquisition from a band of gnome tinkers - and one slender rapier. The light blade fairly sung through the air, and it amused Jarlaxle to adopt a one-sword fighting style at times, rather than the familiar two blades characteristic of the drow. It was also amusing to give the local travelers he held up more of a chance - for Jarlaxle was playing the part of a highwayman of late.

Lastly, Jarlaxle picked up an enchanted mask and slipped it in place over his face. Immediately his entire appearance began to change. His coal-black skin lightened to a golden hue. Ruby eyes became a deep brown. His pointed ears too, changed appearance, quickly becoming rounded. Jarlaxle turned away from the mirror and grinned. Thanks to the mask he looked exactly like a human male.

"How long are you going to keep up this charade?" Entreri asked, sheathing his wickedly sharp dagger.

Jarlaxle shrugged. "Until I grow bored of it."

"Or get killed."

"Really, Artemis. You're such a pessimist at times."

"I'm a realist."

"Call it what you like." Jarlaxle strode to the door and waggled his fingers at Entreri in a good-bye wave, then vanished into the night.

The assassin rolled his eyes.

* * *

><p>Bess sat by her upstairs window, peering out into the windy night. <em>He<em> would be coming soon, and she could hardly wait! To pass the time, Bess began braiding her long, raven-black hair. On impulse she picked up a dark red ribbon and began weaving it into the braid, forming a stylish love-knot.

The sky was quite cloudy tonight, but the moon was full. Strips of cloud were covering the face of the white orb, and Bess thought it looked strangely like some ethereal ship, floating on a cloudy sea of white foam, subjected to the whims of the wind. The white road seemed to glow this evening as well, as if it were a ribbon of moonlight cast across the purple moor, and would simply fade to nothingness with the dawn.

Were those hoofbeats in the distance? Jack! Jack was coming! Her heart leapt at the thought. The handsome bandit whom others merely called "the highwayman" was the light of her otherwise dull existence. True, they had only known each other for a few moons, but Bess felt there could be no other love for her. Sometimes she wished there was someone she could talk to about such things, but Bess was an only child, her mother having died in childbirth with her. Her father, although kind, was certainly not one she would discuss such things with.

Bess' days were filled with helping her father run their small inn, located in a somewhat lonely spot across the moor. One day _he_ had come - the handsome stranger who complimented her stew, saying it was a lovely meal, but not nearly so lovely as the maiden who was serving it. Bess couldn't help being flattered, especially since the compliment came from such a comely, well-dressed man. Later, when he had invited her to join him in a cup of wine, she hadn't hesitated. He had told her his name was Jack. He wanted to know all about her, and seemed genuinely interested in her day-to-day life, her likes, dislikes, and future dreams. Jack was absolutely charming, and such a gentleman. At the end of the evening he had whispered an invitation in her ear, and Bess had waited until the inn was dark and quiet, and then joined him in his room.

And so it had begun. Jack had never returned to the inn openly again, but he often came at night and tapped on Bess' shutters with his riding crop. Then Bess would slip down the stairs, unlatch the back door, and join him on wild, moonlit rides across the moor, or, more often then not, invite him up to her room.

One night she had asked him why he would not come take his supper at the inn anymore. Jack had grown uncharacteristically quiet, and then surprised her by reaching into his pouch and placing a heavy gold coin in her hand. Had she heard of a highwayman around these parts, he'd asked. Bess answered that she had. Jack had studied her face for a moment, as if deciding something. At last, he'd said, "I am the highwayman."

Bess didn't care. She loved him, and that's all there was to it. Besides, Jack had gone on to tell her that he was waiting for one great prize - a transport of gold would be arriving at the local bank one day soon. It would come in the night, to avoid other traffic on the road. Jack intended to meet the transport while it was still miles from town. If he successfully took this prize, he would be rich enough to leave his life of crime, and they could travel all of Faerun, yes, even all of Toril together, from the wondrous city of Silverymoon, city of splendors, to the hauntingly beautiful deserts of Calimshan, the fantastic metropolis of Waterdeep, or even the far-away Sea of Shining Stars. Bess was enchanted. It all sounded like such a marvelous adventure, and so romantic! After drinking in his every word, Bess had kissed Jack and whispered, "Your secret's safe with me."

Tonight he would be coming again. He had promised, and he never broke his word. Yes, those were indeed hoofbeats she heard in the distance, and they were getting closer. Bess peered out of the window eagerly. Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, the highwayman came riding up to the old inn door.

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><p>In progress. All reviews appreciated.<p> 


	2. One Kiss

Chapter 2: One Kiss

The horse Jarlaxle had bought was a magnificent black Calimshan breed - one of but a few wild horses that had been successfully caught and tamed of late. Still, "tame" was hardly the word Jarlaxle would have used to describe the beast. The veiled Calimshite desert-dweller who had sold him the mount had insisted that the horse's name was "Princess Moonbeam", but Jarlaxle wasn't sure if the olive-complexioned woman was teasing him or not. So much harder to read people when their faces were half covered!

Princess Moonbeam, as it turned out, was a foul-tempered girl indeed. Jarlaxle had paid his gold and mounted the fourteen-hand-high horse while the Calimshite woman held Moonbeam's reins and whispered reassurances to the horse in the strange desert tongue.

Jarlaxle was an experienced lizard rider, and some of the skills were transferrable; however, on his first independent attempt at mounting the horse, he had been thrown and landed unceremoniously on his rump in the street. The peasant observers had laughed, and laughed hard. Jarlaxle, furious for a moment, summoned a dagger from his magical gauntlet to hand. In Menzoberranzan many would kill for less. Then he remembered that he was wearing the enchanted mask - they thought him one of them, and nothing more. The dagger was concealed again before it could be noticed, and Jarlaxle got up from the dirt and bowed grandly, to wild applause. He even laughed with the peasants, imagining his mirth at witnessing Entreri so thrown. Jarlaxle was only glad the assassin hadn't been there to see it - Entreri would never have let him live it down.

Finally Princess Moonbeam and the drow had seemed to come to some sort of understanding, and Jarlaxle began his career as highway robber extraordinaire. Barely had he adopted this persona when he met Bess, the dark-eyed maid who had become his lover.

Moonbeam's hooves clattered and clashed over the cobbles as Jarlaxle left the heart of town and headed for the white road that circled the moor. Before he reached the inn-yard, the drow coaxed Princess Moonbeam to a walk, and approached the old inn as silently as a ghost. This was the midnight hour, and all was locked and barred. Approaching a certain second-story window, Jarlaxle reached up and tapped with his whip on the shutters. Silence - only the gossamer night sounds of crickets mingled with the mournful cry of the wind. Jarlaxle whistled a tune to the window, and no sooner had the notes died, then Bess was suddenly there, an exquisite picture of beauty framed by the casement. Her skin, fair and pale, glowed in the moonlight. She wore a shimmering silken nightgown of ethereal white. Her black hair was flawlessly woven into one thick rope of a braid, accentuated by a dark red love-knot.

"Jack," this vision of beauty whispered, and she smiled. Bess turned, intending to go down and unlatch the door, but her lover stopped her with an upraised hand.

"I fear I have no time but for one kiss, my bonnie sweetheart - tonight is the night!"

Her breath caught in her throat. "_It's_ tonight?"

"Yes, dear Elizabeth, _it's _tonight. I dare not linger for too much longer. If I could but kiss your hand, that will be all the good luck I need."

"Oh, Jack!" Excited and nervous, Bess leaned over the windowsill and reached down. Jarlaxle stood upright in the stirrups, but he scare could reach her fair hand, let alone kiss it.

Suddenly inspired, Bess tugged free the ribbon that held her dark hair, unbound the braid, and let her locks fall down around her lover.

The sweetly-perfumed shimmering mass of waves cascaded down around Jarlaxle, and he gathered up Bess' night-black locks and kissed her hair in the moonlight. "Tomorrow night," he said breathlessly, "Tomorrow night when the moon is full."

"Tomorrow, Jack? Not tonight?"

"If I can, love, if I can. Perhaps I shall place gold in your hands before the morning light! But if not tonight, then tomorrow, when the moon is full."

"I'll be waiting."

Jarlaxle smiled. He pressed her soft hair to his cheek once more. Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

* * *

><p>AN: The next chapter will be longer :)

In progress. Reviews welcome!


	3. Highway Robbery

Chapter 3: Highway Robbery

From the darkness of the inn's small stable, Timoteo watched the bandit gallop away. He watched as Bess, sweet, fair Bess, reached out a silk-clad arm and closed her shutters tightly. And for the first time in many a moon, the stable-hand had a gleam of hope in his slate-gray eyes.

For Timoteo loved Bess – more than that, was obsessed with her. But the lass had never paid him any mind. When she would come to the stable to ride her horse Blackie, she scarcely said two words to him. She never noticed that Blackie's feed-box contained the best oats. She never noticed that Blackie was always painstakingly groomed and curried. She never noticed how the horse's saddle was polished until Timoteo could see his reflection shining in its surface. Nor did she notice his shy smile, or the way his hand lingered on her own when he helped her into the saddle. Then this...this _bandit_, this common _robber_ appeared at the inn, and she noticed _him_.

Over the past few moons Timoteo had almost despaired of life. He always found sleep to be an elusive thing, up in his drafty loft above the stable, lying on prickly straw and hard boards, a thin blanket his only protection from the cold bite of the wind that came howling through the cracks in the wall. The highwayman's nocturnal visits had not gone unnoticed by the stable-hand, no matter how quietly the thief entered the inn-yard. The rusty wheels of Timoteo's conniving mind had slowly begun to turn, once he realized that this lover was in fact the infamous highwayman. If only he could...but there was no discernible pattern to the bandit's visits.

Tonight when the highwayman had come again, Timoteo had, as usual, listened earnestly, silently, from the black depths of the loft. The voices were too hushed, dammit! They were always too hushed. Then at the last, the wind, that immortal enemy of his, had inexplicably relented, had turned, and Timoteo had caught a few words – no more that one sentence – but it was enough. "Tomorrow night when the moon is full."

The stable-hand ran callused fingers through his stringy blond hair – hair that was the same color as the moldy straw he slept on. And an evil smile parted his thin lips. Bess would not be the only one waiting for the thief in the moonlight, oh no. And once the highwayman was dead, who would she turn to for consolation? Who would be there with a listening ear and a kind word? Who would offer tender sympathy and a shoulder to cry on? Timoteo, of course. And once Bess was done grieving for that wretch, that law-breaker, Timoteo swore that she would be his. The stable-hand wrapped his thin blanket around his narrow shoulders, left the darkness of the stable, and started quickly down the white road toward town and the militia captain's home.

* * *

><p>Captain Tentara of the watch had grown particularly fond of the gnome-made muskets the town had recently purchased for him and his men. He enjoyed the acrid scent of the gunpowder burning. He enjoyed the sharp report when the weapons were fired, as well as the accompanying cloud of smoke. But what he enjoyed most about the muskets was the destruction they wreaked – how the lead ball would rip through a thick wooden target effortlessly, leaving a jagged hole in its wake. "<em>Little gnome buggers finally got something right,<em>" he thought derisively. And tonight, if what the grimy stable-hand had told him was true, they would finally get to test their new muskets, not only on crude wooden targets, but on the smelly hide of the notorious highwayman.

* * *

><p>The gold transport was making good time, and the road was all but deserted. The two guards in the back of the coach were animatedly discussing which of the barmaids at the <em>Cup &amp; Kettle<em> was the prettiest. The third and fourth guard were singing a bawdy song, and the driver was just trying to stay awake.

"...Wearin' nothin' more than th' gods had graced 'im with upon his birth! Wearin–" Suddenly the taller of the two front guards stopped singing and elbowed his partner in his ample gut. "Do you smell jasmine?" he hissed.

The tubby guard smiled lewdly. "Who's Jasmine?" he asked eagerly.

"Not _who_, you idiot," the gangley man answered. "Jasmine's a flower."

"A flower?"

"Yes, a flower, alright? But it doesn't grow around here, and–"

There was a sticky sounding _splat_, followed immediately by another, and both driver and guards found themselves covered from neck to knees with a viscous, green goop.

"What the hells?"

The driver's question was answered as the highwayman emerged from the darkness, swung down from his mount, and stopped their own frightened horses, all the while brandishing sword and pistol. He was immaculately dressed, and smelled of jasmine.

"Good evening gentlemen," the highwayman intoned politely. "Don't bother getting up."

The goo-covered trio struggled frantically, but found themselves completely and utterly entangled.

The two guards in the back of the wagon leapt out, swords in hand, and immediately began circling to either side of the robber.

"Now, now gentlemen," Jarlaxle warned, leveling his pistol. "Over against those trees please."

The guards exchanged a brief, puzzled look and continued their synchronous advance. This flowery-smelling skinny thief with the expensive clothes and the laughable sword should be no problem to take down.

Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow but held his ground. "Don't tell me," he said incredulously, "that you've never seen a pistol before." He waved the item in question menacingly.

"A...what-now?" the red-haired guard on his right inquired.

The swordsman on Jarlaxle's left took the opportunity to lunge. The highwayman's thin rapier shot out, taking the blade. Jarlaxle deftly twisted his wrist, and the larger sword went flying. Immediately the tip of the rapier came to rest against the hollow of the unfortunate man's throat. "A _pistol_," he repeated to the second guard, as though their conversation had never been interrupted. "Allow me to demonstrate."

Uncertain, the red-head gave a curt not, remaining where he was.

"Attack him, you idiot! Attack!" the first guard bellowed, despite the sword at his windpipe.

Without warning Jarlaxle pivoted, lowering his rapier even as he reversed his grip on the pistol, and smashed the butt of the weapon into the man's temple. The guard dropped to the ground like a stone, unconscious.

"Now then," said the highwayman pleasantly, looking back to the remaining guard – "a demonstration." He holstered the pistol that was in his right hand, but kept the rapier in his left. Reaching into a pocket, he produced, of all things, an apple. "Observe." Jarlaxle tossed the apple into the air, watched as it reached its apex and began to descend, the drew the pistol in a blur and shot. Four feet from the ground the apple exploded, bits of sticky flesh and seeds spraying out in every direction.

Without a word the red-headed guard dropped his sword.

"Wise decision," Jarlaxe complimented, and strode forward to claim his gold.

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><p>AN: In progress. Review, _por favor_ :)


	4. Watch For Me By The Moonlight

Chapter 4: Watch for Me By the Moonlight

Gold, enchanted mask, and highwayman costume all conveniently stashed in an extra-dimensional pocket that Jarlaxle carried around with him for just such occasions, the drow rode sedately back towards town.

Finally arriving at the ramshackle inn where he and Entreri had secured lodgings, the drow entrusted Princess Moonbeam to the sleepy stable-boy and slipped up to his room as the first rays of dawn were touching the horizon. He entered soundlessly, but Entreri was already gone, his blanket neatly straightened over the narrow bed at the far end of their quarters.

That suited Jarlaxle fine – he thought it prudent to spend the day laying low anyway, and preferred nocturnal excursions when the harsh sun of the surface wasn't burning his eyes sensitive eyes. Carelessly casting cloak and boots aside, Jarlaxle got into his own unmade bed and arranged his numerous pillows and blankets comfortably.

Entreri's perfectly-made bed on the other side of the room held only one thin blanket and no pillow at all, the pragmatic assassin not wanting to sleep so deeply that he wouldn't be able to awaken fully alert in an instant. Jarlaxle, who merely entered the meditative state known as reverie, had no such worries. Entreri had scoffed when Jarlaxle had paid good coin for extra bedding, but the drow believed in being comfortable.

Jarlaxle drew the blankets around his shoulders and sighed in contentment. The night's robbery had been an amusing diversion, extra gold was a nice bonus, and tonight after the sun was down again he would see Bess. The drow smiled, remembering the last night they had spent together. He closed his eyes and let reverie take him, without a care in the world.

* * *

><p>When Jarlaxle next awoke, the sun had already set. Feeling ravenously hungry, the drow dressed quickly in nondescript black leggings and a gray tunic. He threw his cloak around his shoulders and headed downstairs in search of nourishment. Deciding that the inn's fare actually smelled good enough to eat this night, the mercenary sat down at a corner table in the common room. It was quite late for the evening meal, but fortunately there was still some food left in the kitchen. As the drow ate, his sensitive ears picked up on every conversation in the room, most of them focusing on how the highwayman had struck again, this time seizing more gold than ever before. Outwardly the mercenary's face was unreadable, but inwardly Jarlaxle grinned.<p>

Tossing a coin to the innkeeper, the dark elf drew his cloak more tightly around him and went out into the frosty night air. Jarlaxle decided to luxuriate at the bathhouse for awhile before going to see Bess. As anxious as he was to have her in his arms again, he didn't want to arrive until the old landlord was sound asleep. Human fathers tended to be unreasonable when they discovered that someone was secretly courting their daughter, after all.

* * *

><p>It was a decidedly unpleasant feeling, Blake decided, to awaken to the cold bite of a blade pressed against your neck. And even more unpleasant was being utterly ignored when you demanded to know the meaning of it. Blake, still groggy from sleep, found himself hauled out of his comfortable bed by two burly members of the town watch, marched through his own darkened inn, and shoved into the wine cellar. None of the militia would answer his questions, choosing instead to merely bind him hand and foot, gag him, and make off with several bottles of his finest spirits before barring him inside the dank room.<p>

"_This_," Blake thought morosely, as he lay on the cold dirt floor, "_is going to be a very bad night._" How they'd entered the locked inn so silently in the first place was beyond him, unless one of the troops moonlighted as a lock-picker. Blake's dark thoughts turned to his daughter, Bess, and he struggled furiously against his bonds, but to no avail. He could only pray to whatever deity who might happen to be listening that she fare no worse than he.

* * *

><p>Bess jolted awake suddenly at the sound of boots on the stair. She hadn't meant to fall asleep in the first place, but the flickering of her single candle and the monotonous sound of the wind had had a soporific effect. Could it be Jack? Bess got up, crossed over to the mirror that sat atop her dressing table, and hastily ran her fingers through her disheveled hair. More fully alert now, she frowned. It sounded like several people climbing the stairs...<p>

The bedroom door burst open and a hulking figure in a red coat leered down at her. Bess shrieked and hastily backed away, stopping only when she felt the sudden shocking jolt of her back hitting the wall.

The figure stepped into the room, his ghastly-seeming features taking on a more normal appearance as he entered the circle of light cast by the candle. More men entered the room, and more, all with muskets pointed straight at her. Bess recognized Captain Tentara of the militia, but she could scarcely breathe under the scrutiny of his harsh visage.

Taking a shuddery breath, Bess forced words past her lips. "W-What's g-going on?" Speaking aloud seemed to give her some measure of courage, although her heart still raced frantically. Bess put as much strength into her voice as she could muster. "What is the meaning of this?"

Captain Tentara stepped closer to her, so close that she could smell the sour odor of his perspiration, along with the alcohol on his breath. "You know why we're here."

Indeed, she could surely guess, but Bess feigned her ignorance well. "Does the militia make a habit of visiting women's rooms by night then?" she retorted sharply.

Bess' eyes barely registered Tentara's arm moving before his stinging backhand rocked her head sharply to one side. She staggered, bright colors exploding before her eyes, the taste of blood harsh and salty on her tongue. Tentara caught her roughly and shoved her towards the knot of his men grouped behind them. "We know about the highwayman," he said matter-of-factly, crossing over to stare out the open window. "And you would do well to show some respect to your town's defenders."

Gerard, the soldier who had caught Bess, handed his musket to the man beside him and grinned down at her. He placed one hand on her soft breast, and pulled her tight against him with the other arm. Bess froze. "How's about a kiss, love?" Gerard leaned in closer, and she spat in his face. Enraged, the spurned watchman released her from his embrace and doubled her over with a brutal punch to the stomach. Bess gasped and crumpled, curling up on the floor with a moan. The amorous soldier wiped a sleeve across his face angrily and hauled her to her feet again, fingers bruising her wrists. "I'll show you what we do with whores like you!"

"Such...a man," Bess choked out, before he could do anything further. "Attacking an unarmed woman."

There were a few murmurs of assent from the watching troops behind them, and Gerard let go of Bess in disgust.

Captain Tentara turned away from the window. "Enough play," he said tersely. "Tie her up and keep her quiet. Then I want two of you at each window up here and two at both doors downstairs."

They began to disperse. One of the men twisted Bess' arms behind her and she cried out again as a jolt of burning pain raced from her shoulders to elbows. Gerard took a rope from another of the soldiers and tied her wrists and ankles with quick, vicious jerks. Next he took Bess' own pillowcase from the pillow on her bed and ripped it apart, forcing the gag between her lips and knotting it cruelly tight.

Two soldiers knelt at each of the room's two windows, muskets at the ready. Gerard bound Bess to the foot board of her own bed, where she could see the ribbon of road looping the moor. The road that Jack would ride. The moon was reaching its apex, and soon he would be coming. He never broke his word.

Gerard shoved his own musket beneath Bess' breast painfully, and she practically had to stand on tip-toe to alleviate the pressure of the barrel digging into her ribs.

"That's right – stand at attention," Gerard hissed. "And keep good watch!" He seemed to think this hilariously funny, and laughed a horrid, wheezing laugh. "Keep good watch!"

Bess did her best to ignore him, staring straight ahead. Jack was a dead man, that much was certain. She'd been at the market more than once while the militia were practicing with their new muskets. She knew how the weapons worked. She knew the damage they could do. "_Don't let him come! Please, don't let him come!_" She knew not whom she addressed with these urgent thoughts. Bess' eyes burned with unshed tears and despair filled her heart. The thought repeated itself again: Jack was surely a dead man.

Gerard had finished tying his musket to her, and now he surprised Bess by loosening her gag a bit. Was he suddenly feeling guilty for his rough treatment? she wondered. And could she use that to her advantage? All such thoughts fled when Gerard grabbed a handful of her raven-black hair and jerked her head back painfully. "I'll take that kiss now," he hissed in her ear, then hooked one finger beneath the loosened gag and pulled it down. He kissed her hard and Bess gagged, revolted at the feel of his lips and the smell of stale whiskey on his breath. She struggled to pull away, but she could not. Gerard thrust his tongue into her mouth and Bess' eye widened in shock for a moment, then she bit down on the offending organ as hard as she could.

Gerard let out a surprised grunt of pain and jerked away.

"Stay the hells away from me, you bastard!" Bess shouted, hoping against hope that one of the other men would intervene.

Gerard wiped blood from his mouth and drew his arm back to punch her, but Tentara grabbed it before he could follow through. "Quiet!" the captain demanded. "The robber might arrive at any moment, and I'll not have your foolish noise scaring him off." Tentara himself re-tied Bess' gag while Gerard went and sulked in the bedroom doorway like a scolded puppy.

Tentara walked back to his place at the window and stared down the white road as if he could draw the highwayman into view through the sheer force of his own will.

Bess twisted her hands behind her, quietly, desperately, but all the knots held good. The dirty piece of rope bit into her wrists but she continued to writhe her hands, fingers straining to loosen the knots. Somehow it bothered her that the rope was dirty. Bess' wrists and ankles itched furiously, and she imagined fleas crawling out of the rope's fibers to bite her. A drop of sweat rolled down her back and she shuddered. She continued to twist her wrists, ignoring the burning pain of the rope as it rubbed against her delicate skin. If only she could get that musket, maybe she could do _something_. Maybe she could escape.

Bess strained at the knots and the hours crawled by. Her fingers were growing numb. Still she struggled, both the rope and her hands getting sticky and wet. Whether it was sweat or blood, she did not know. Suddenly the tip of her finger touched it – something cold, hard, and metallic...the musket!

Bess forced her raw wrists another hair's breadth through the loops of rope, and another. At last she could easily touch the trigger. She wiggled her left index finger – yes, she would be able to move it enough to pull the trigger.

Bess couldn't bear the thought of living if Jack died. He was her one true love, her light, her joy. No, life would not be worth living without him. But she knew Jack was strong, so strong. Perhaps she could still save him. Jack was a survivor; Bess could tell. _He_ could go on without her. He could find another... The thought pained her heart momentarily, but not as much as the idea of Jack being alone and unloved. She could not escape, but perhaps she could still give him his life. Bess remembered Captain Tentara's words about not wanting any noise to scare the highwayman off. "_Jack_," she thought silently, urgently, "_I won't let them have you! I _won't_._"

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><p>When Jarlaxle returned to the inn from the bathhouse he was feeling perfectly relaxed and mellow. Until, that was, he entered the stable to order Princess Moonbeam saddled and readied. The horse wasn't in her usual stall, and a quick look around revealed that she wasn't there at all. Jarlaxle crossed to the stable loft in two strides and stepped up on to the first rung of the ladder. He shook the sleeping stable-boy awake. "Where is my horse?" the drow demanded.<p>

The poor lad blinked up at him groggily and rubbed his eyes. "Wha...?"

"Princess Moonbeam," Jarlaxle said, succinctly enunciating every syllable. "Where is she?"

"Oh, Moonbeam!" The youth sat up and stifled a yawn. "Yer friend came 'n got 'er at midday. 'Nen 'e came back on foot, mebbe cuppla hours later." The stable boy yawned again. "Think 'e ate lunch, 'nen 'e left agin."

Jarlaxle countenance darkened. "I see."

"Can I go back t' sleep now, mister?"

Jarlaxle stepped down from the ladder. "Not just yet. I require a horse. Ready one of the rentals – the best one, if you would."

The boy stretched and groaned. "Alright." He rolled out of the loft sleepily and dropped to the haystack below.

"Good lad." Jarlaxle turned to leave the stable but paused in the doorway. "Has my, er..._friend_ returned to the inn again this night?"

"I'm thinkin' so, mister."

"Thank you."

* * *

><p>Entreri's senses were honed such that he was never surprised when someone – even Jarlaxle with his boots of stealth – entered their decrepit room at the inn. Even if he couldn't hear the drow's approach, the rogue could still feel the ever-so-subtle vibrations in the wooden floorboards. This time, however, no skill was necessary to detect his approach. The drow mercenary was letting his boots thump loudly on the hall floor – indeed, he was literally stomping down the hall.<p>

Entreri got to his feet and stood to the side of the door, making sure his sword and dagger both slid freely in their respective scabbards.

The door banged open and hit the wall behind it, rattling the dusty pane of glass in the room's one tiny window. "Artemis, you _idiot_!" Jarlaxle exclaimed, fixing his traveling companion with a glare.

Entreri ever-so-slowly let his hands come to rest on his weapon's hilts. "Start over," he said, his deadly tone clearly indicating that there would be no second warning.

Jarlaxle glared at the assassin a moment longer, and then suddenly seemed to realize the full extent of the situation he was in. He'd always thought it would be an interesting match...but no, now was not the time. He nodded once, a nearly imperceptible inclination of the head, and said simply, "Where is she?"

"Where is _who_?"

"You know very well _who_, and don't pretend otherwise."

"Bess?" Entreri knew of Bess – after all Jarlaxle _did_ have an annoying propensity to kiss and tell.

"Not Bess. Princess Moonbeam." Jarlaxle slammed the door shut, irritated, and flexed his wrist subconsciously.

Entreri stiffened at the gesture, more than half expecting to see a dagger appear in that coal-black hand, but he did not tense from fright – rather it was the tensing of a viper preparing to strike. "Oh...the horse," he answered dryly.

"Not _the_ horse..._my_ horse!"

"I sold it." The tone was matter-of-fact.

"You..._sold_ her?"

"Yes, I sold _her_."

Jarlaxle shouldered past the assassin and flopped down onto his pillow-strewn bed. He flung one arm over his eyes and addressed the ceiling. "Why?"

Entreri relaxed slightly and crossed the room to sit on his own bed, still watching the drow with guarded eyes. "For your own good."

"For my own...Artemis, I _loved_ that horse! We had an understanding, she and I. She was beautiful, she was–"

"Very distinct. Very large. Very recognizable as the horse of the Highwayman. Fortunately I got her out and sold her to some fool in the next valley over before any of the locals actually opened their eyes to what was right in front of them."

It was probably more than Jarlaxle had ever heard the terse assassin say at one time before, he speculated. "I see."

"And if you have a death-wish and are going to keep this up much longer," Entreri continued, "then at least wait until you're safely out of town before donning that ridiculous costume of yours tonight."

Jarlaxle sat up and placed one hand dramatically over his heart. "I'm touched by your concern, Artemis, truly."

Entreri ignored the sarcasm in his response. "Your skills are of use to me, and I'd hate to have them needlessly go to waste."

"Spoken like a true native of Menzoberranzan," Jarlaxle commented, getting to his feet. "Are you sure you weren't born in my fair city?"

Entreri replied with a glare and Jarlaxle smiled. "Very well my friend, I'll take your advice...after all, sage wisdom should never be ignored, despite the source." He crossed to the door, waggled his fingers in the wave that he knew annoyed the assassin to no end, and left the inn.

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><p>In progress. All reviews appreciated. :)<p> 


	5. No Greater Love

Chapter 5: No Greater Love

_"There is no greater love than a person giving up their life for their friend_."

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><p>Bess knew what she must do, and somehow the knowing filled her with a complete and utter calmness. Calmness of mind, that was. For some reason her heart still beat frantically in her chest, like a trapped bird fluttering wildly against the bars of a cage. Her finger traced the unyielding metal of the trigger again, its previous cold bite now replaced by a warmth from her near-continual touch. Bess shivered with a sudden chill. It seemed the musket grew warmer and she grew colder, as if the weapon that would soon claim her very existence was already leeching the life-force from her body. Bess shook her head slightly and tried to put away such dark musings.<p>

There! Had she heard something? She couldn't be certain... Yes! - there is was again! Hoofbeats in the distance. She knew it was Jack - it could be no other. The lateness of the hour left her with no doubt as to the rider's identity. Few travelled this road in the day, let alone at night.

None of the militia stirred. The hoofbeats were getting closer now, more distinct. Still, the soldiers made no movement. Were they suddenly deaf, by some magic? Was her own hearing so acute because she knew it to be the last time she would hear the approach of her love?

Suddenly Captain Tentara tensed, staring down the ribbon of white road. "Check your powder!" he hissed, and the soldiers hastened to obey. The two men at the North window reloaded quickly and frantically. Damp powder would not fire. The others looked to their priming and decided it was good.

Bess could hear the blood pounding in her ears. Would her musket fire? Yes, it must! If it didn't… "It _will_," she told herself again. This was her one chance, the only way to warn him. She would not let them have him, not when she could save him - he who was her very heart.

The horse was rapidly closing the distance now. "Hold your fire till it's a sure shot!"

Did Bess imagine it, or could she actually hear him singing softly, improvising a tune for her? _Bess, Bess with hair of raven black; Bess, Bess, nothing did she lack..._

Bess took one last deep breath, her eyes wide. "_Goodbye Jack_, _my sweet love. Goodbye._" Her finger moved in the moonlight, and the musket fired.

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><p>Jarlaxle's rented horse reared in fright as the sound of a shot ripped through the still night air. The horse's front hooves pawed the air frantically, and the drow hung on, almost unseated. Cursing under his breath, he jerked his rein around and urged the horse back the way he had come. Feeling regretful for just an instant, Jarlaxle made use of the spurs that had previously been for fashion alone. In an instant they were flying back along the moor road, the mercenary leaning low in the saddle.<p>

So, the militia had finally caught up to him. Jarlaxle suppressed a shudder at the thought of a musket ball ripping through his body. Without his stoneskin enchantment… But surely luck was smiling down on him tonight - some over-eager soldier had fired too soon. Jarlaxle grinned as the horse's mane whipped wildly around his face, revelling in the thrill of the adrenaline rushing through his veins. "_You'll have to do better than that, poor fools; you haven't got me yet!"_

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><p>In progress. The next chapter will be longer :) The welcomeness of your reviews cannot be over-emphasized…<p> 


	6. A Torrent of Darkness

Chapter 6: A Torrent of Darkness

Captain Tentara whirled from his position at the window, furious at whichever of his men had shot too soon. He had been pursuing this bandit for weeks already, only to have the highwayman slip from his grasp _again_. And all because of some stupid incompetent. There would be hell to pay. Absolute, then, was his shock at seeing Bess' lifeless form, her lithe body drenched with her own red blood, her head bowed over the musket.

Even as he barked out orders and his men scrambled, Tentara knew it was useless. They had marched to the inn on foot, and the highwayman had fairly flown down the road after the fateful shot had been fired. Secondary to that, now they didn't even have bait - Bess was beyone the reach of anyone, be they healer or magician. Still, he ordered his men to pursue, leaving Gerard to deal with the unfortunate innkeeper still locked up in the cellar. After all, it had been Gerard's musket that killed Bess - let him face the unpleasant explanations.

Tentara commandeered the one horse in the inn's small stable. The grimy stable-hand helped him mount and actually had the audacity to say "Hurry! He's getting away!"

Tentara managed - barely - to refrain from elbowing the man in the face as he galloped into the night.

A pair of cold grey eyes observed all this commotion from the shadows, no flicker of emotion disturbing their icy depths. The figure moved then, silently, swiftly, one black-gloved hand sliding an ornately-crafted jeweled dagger soundlessly from its sheath.

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><p>Gerard stood at the West window and watched as all of his companions departed. Finally he turned, trying to avoid looking at the bloody corpse still bound to the foot of the bed, and hastened to the room's door with a shudder. He was stopped just short of his goal by a dagger that somehow appeared at his throat. There was a black-gloved hand connected to the dagger.<p>

"Going somewhere?" a cold voice hissed in his ear.

Before Gerard could recover himself, his own militia-issue dagger was removed from his belt and his right arm was twisted painfully behind his back.

"Let's have a chat, shall we?" Entreri said, steering the soldier back into the small room and straight towards Bess' body. He'd seen how it had unnerved the man.

"W-Who are you?" Gerard choked out, instinctively recoiling as his unknown assailant marched him straight in front of the corpse, stopping when they were mere inches apart.

"That is unimportant," Entreri answered. "Who told you the highwayman would be coming here tonight?"

Gerard hesitated. "No one told us; we figured it out ourselves."

Entreri jerked the man's arm upward, stopping just short of breaking it, and Gerard grunted in pain. "Try again," the assassin hissed, "and this time be sure to tell the truth or I'll break your arm."

"The stable-hand!" Gerard gasped. "It was the stable-hand, alright? Now let me go!"

Entreri lowered Gerard's arm a bit, rewarding his acquiescence. "Now tell me," he began again in a low voice, "what part you had in the death of this girl."

"I had no part!" Gerard exclaimed. "She killed herself!"

"With your musket." The blade pressed harder against Gerard's throat, drawing a thin line of blood, but Entreri's will kept the vampiric nature of the weapon in check.

"It's not mine!"

The assassin smirked, increasing the pressure on his captive's arm. "Every other soldier had a musket, but not you. But _this_ musket is just someone else's _second_ weapon." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

"I…"

"What did I tell you," the assassin continued, his sarcastic tone turning deadly, "about lying to me?"

"Yes! It's mine!" Gerard gasped, trying to twist around to alleviate the pain in his arm, but Entreri kept the blade tight against his throat, preventing the movement. The assassin gave a sudden vicious jerk, breaking Gerard's arm with a sickening crack. Ignoring the screams, Entreri pulled his blade back and let the man crumple to the floor. Unmoved, he crouched down beside the moaning Gerard and took hold of his uninjured left arm. "Now then," he said, distinctly enunciating his words to be heard over the harsh sobs, "You will tell me all I wish to know, or I shall break this arm as well." He waited a moment. "Do you doubt me?"

"No!" Gerard managed to choke out.

"Good."

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><p>After Entreri had learned all he wanted to know from Gerard, he tied him up with the very same rope that had been used to tie Bess. He left the still-moaning soldier in the corner of the room and crossed over to Bess' body.<p>

Entreri frowned, again noticing Bess' index finger still caught inside the trigger guard. "_Foolish girl_," he thought to himself as he untied the musket from her body. "_You foolish girl, you could have lived!_" He untied the gag and pulled it free, then lifted her still-warm form and gently laid her on her bed. _Why choose this?_ he wondered. Somehow the assassin was unable to comprehend it. _Why throw your life away for _anyone_ - even your lover?_ He brushed the tangled black hair away from her face and tried to smooth it into a natural position. Entreri picked up the crumpled blanket from the floor and laid it over the girl, drawing it up to her chin and covering the hideous wound. He knew how much she'd meant to Jarlaxle. Perhaps he didn't understand it, but one thing was certain - he'd not have Jarlaxle see her as she had been - tied, gagged, and blood-drenched. Entreri drew Bess' pale white hands atop the blanket and folded them. There.

He crossed the room in two steps, hauled Gerard to his feet, and headed down to the wine cellar, bringing the protesting guardsman with him.

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><p>Jarlaxle Baenre grinned. He'd long ago lost his pursuers, of that he was certain. He watched, pleased, as his now-riderless horse galloped back in the direction of it's stable and feed-box. Even without his costume, the mercenary wouldn't risk returning to his former lodgings again. He'd have to find a new place to spend the night. The militia's unexpected surprise had been great fun, especially since they had been so sloppy. Jarlaxle checked that anything incriminating was safely stowed in his dimensional pocket and headed for a promising-looking inn. Tomorrow he'd worry about how to get to Bess unnoticed. For tonight, however, he heard the rattling of dice and the distinctive sound of cards being shuffled. There was money ripe for the picking, and what kind of mercenary would he be if he didn't avail himself to it?<p>

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><p>AN: In progress. Sorry it took me so long to get this chapter posted! As always, reviews are greatly appreciated!


	7. Not Till The Dawn

Chapter 7: Not Till The Dawn

It wasn't hard to find Jarlaxle again. Just check the loudest taverns known for their high-stakes games. His business finished across the moor, Entreri had returned to their former lodgings unnoticed and retrieved what few belongings they'd left behind. He'd entered and exited silently through an upper window, then taken to the rooftops as it was faster than the darkened alleys. The sky was growing lighter already. It was almost dawn.

Jarlaxle was sitting at a corner table facing the doorway of the _Cup and Kettle_, the third inn Enteri checked. Their eyes met, then both glanced away as though strangers. The mercenary was not using the enchanted mask for the first time since their visit here, and Entreri wondered at the wisdom of that. He moved to the bar and began haggling for a room. Indeed, Jarlaxle was sporting his old eye patch, diatryma-feather hat, earrings and vest. Enteri supposed perhaps it _was_ wise - although a dark elf certainly attacted attention, everyone knew that the fugitive highwayman was human. Finally securing a room at a reasonable price, Entreri noted the room number and paid his coin.

At the gaming table a disgruntled-looking dwarf declared he'd fold, whilst Jarlaxle and two burly human warriors revealed their hands. The dark elf shrugged over the loss of two gold coins and tossed them carelessly to his opponent with the straight flush.

Enteri stepped up to the table and crossed his arms over his chest. "I would speak with you, _drow_." The last word was intoned with what seemed to be barely restrained contempt.

Jarlaxle smirked. "Certainly, friend, certainly. All in good time. Sit, drink and eat, we'll deal you in."

Enteri didn't move. "I would speak with you _now_."

The mercenary shook his head slightly, looking to his opponents apologetically. "Humans are so impatient...with the exception of you two of course." He tipped his hat to the two large warriors who, upon closer inspection, appeared to be brothers.

Couldn't Jarlaxle take a hint? Entreri realized that perhaps his carefully-schooled emotionless features did him a disservice in moments such as these. "It's about a lady of your acquaintance," he said at last.

"A...lady?" There was sudden alarm behind the dark elf's eyes, but he did well to hide it. "You'll excuse me, gentlemen."

Entreri turned and headed up the stairs while Jarlaxle scooped up his heap of coins, two pearl earrings, and a ruby stickpin, sweeping it all into a pouch. He tipped his hat again and strode up the stairs, outwardly exuding his usual aura of confidence, but inwardly plagued by a thousand questions. Entreri led the way to his rented room and Jarlaxle closed the door behind them.

The assassin answered the first unasked question without preamble. "Bess is dead."

Jarlaxle's eyes went wide for a moment, then narrowed in denial. "You lie!" His fists clenched and unclenched convulsively.

Entreri shook his head slightly. "At times, I lie," he conceded. "But not this time."

"Are you certain she's dead?"

"Yes."

Jarlaxle slumped against the wall and slowly sank to the floor, his legs no longer supporting him. "How...how did..." his voice trailed off and he put his head in his hands.

"The stablehand betrayed you," Enteri began, sparing his ally the necessity of speaking further. "The soldiers arrived well before you did. They captured Bess and tied her up, then lay in wait for you."

The mercenary took in this clear, concise summary. He looked up. "They shot at me, but they shot too soon. So they killed her just to spite me?" He rose to his feet suddenly, ruby eyes blazing.

"No." Entreri raised a calming hand. "One of the guardsman thought it would be amusing to tie her up to attention with a musket beneath her breast."

"With...a musket..." Jarlaxle repeated slowly.

"She shot herself, _abbil_. To warn you away."

"No. Impossible! You said she was tied!"

"Her wrists were raw from straining at her bonds. She reached the trigger. She had to warn you-"

"No!"

"Her finger was still caught in the trigger guard-"

"NO!" Jarlaxle looked about the room wildly, ignoring the burning sting behind his eyes. "Where is the mask? I'm going to her!" Not seeing the item in question, he turned towards the door.

Enteri quick-stepped, interposing himself between Jarlaxle and his goal. The mercenary tried to push past him, but the assassin grabbed his arm. "Not like this."

Jarlaxle glanced down at the hand on his arm. "Remove your hand," he said, his tone almost a growl, "or I will remove it for you."

Entreri did well to hide his smirk. Did Jarlaxle even know to whom he was speaking? He let his arm fall to his side, but still did not step out of the mercenary's way. "Stoneskin," he said simply. "Do not leave this room without it."

Jarlaxle said nothing, seeming to stare through him. The assassin still blocked his way. "Are you finished?" Jarlaxle was growing distinctly more and more annoyed.

"No."

"No?" Jarlaxle flicked his wrist and immediately had an enchanted dagger in his hand. He _must_ get to Bess, he _must_ see his beloved, and no one was going to stand in his way. The drow's hand flashed out, dagger tracing a horizontal slash aimed at the assassin's midsection.

Entreri caught the move and easily met the blade with his own jeweled weapon. How often he'd wondered how such a battle between them might play out, both expertly trained and equally cunning...but now was not the time. Jarlaxle let out a growl and pressed harder, preparing to break free and slash again, but Entreri would have none of it. With a sudden brutal sweep he had Jarlaxle's weapon hand pinned to the wall beside them. "Think!" he chastized. "Your judgment is clouded. You will not leave this room without being properly prepared. You have stoneskin - use it. You may need healing potions - get them. And I hope to the nine hells you have a teleportation spell stowed away somewhere!"

Whether it the ease with which Entreri had had him at his mercy or the words that had finally gotten through to him the assassin didn't know, but Jarlaxle dispelled his magical dagger with a thought and dropped his arm. The drow closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his temples briefly. "You're right. And _vith_ I hate you for it, but you're right."

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><p><em>Abbil<em> - friend

_vith_ - [I'll let you figure that one out on your own...]

In progress. All reviews welcome!


	8. Though Hell Should Bar the Way

Chapter 8: Though Hell Should Bar the Way

Jarlaxle Baenre was not unfamiliar with death. Some of his earliest memories, in fact, were of kobold slaves being slaughtered for some unknown infraction. Then there were the endless wars between the houses of Menzoberranzan. Death was ever-present and unsurprising. And Llolth knew he'd certainly caused enough of it himself. How many had died at the end of his blades? How many more from a well-placed fireball or other spell conjured by his plethora of magical items? He'd lost count. Jarlaxle had ordered his mercenary band, _Bregan D'aerthe_, into countless battles where many had died. He'd had underlings and even lieutenants executed for mere insolence. Yes, death was no stranger.

And so _why_, the mercenary asked himself as he carefully dressed in the costume of the Highwayman, why this burning sting in his eyes? Why could he scarcely breathe when he pictured Bess' lifeless body, cold and still? Why this blinding rage that made his fingers clumsy as he buttoned his red velvet coat? He had had other lovers who had been been murdered. Why was this bothering him so much? Jarlaxle began lacing his thigh-high boots and glared at his reflection in the looking-glass. Lovers he had had, but he had never loved any of them. Not until now. How could he have been so careless, to let himself fall in love?

_Love_. The mercenary turned the strange word over in his mind. The drow language had no word for love. When he'd first learned the word up here on the surface world, he'd found it nearly incomprehensible. Certainly drow made alliances, forged mutually beneficial friendships, felt lust, and enjoyed pleasure. But this idea of _love_, this deep care and concern for another...he hadn't thought it possible that he would ever experience such a feeling. It had never even been a passing thought. It had never been his intention to fall in love.

Jarlaxle straightened and observed his appearance fully. He hid his drow heritage with the magical mask, but it was harder to mask his grief. Angrily, he grabbed a potion of stoneskin from his pack, but it was hard to swallow around the painful lump in his throat. They had taken sweet Bess from him! His hand tightened around the neck of the now-empty bottle until the glass suddenly cracked. Deliberately, he hurled the broken bottle into his full-length mirror, watching his reflection shatter and the glass ricochet with a satisfying crash and rain of sparkling shards. Armed to the teeth and blood pulsing with rage, the Highwayman strode to the door and yanked it open. Perhaps he would die today. But he would take as many of them with him as possible.

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><p>His spurs jangled loudly as the Highwayman descended the steps to the common room of the <em>Cup and Kettle<em>. If the sounds of breaking glass from above had not given the tavern's patrons pause, this new sound certainly did. Conversation in the room below rapidly became hushed and eyes turned upward. Two militia men who had been smoking in the corner had the presence of mind to get to their feet and draw their sabers. They carried no muskets today. As one, the guardsmen moved to intercept the infamous robber. Jarlaxle was almost to the bottom of the stairs and he didn't even break his stride. Insolently, he reached up and tipped his hat to the soldiers, then, bringing his arm down and across fast, launched first one magical dagger and then another from the wrist gauntlet concealed beneath his sleeve. The first dagger took a soldier in the throat, the second took his companion in the heart. They were still crumpling to the floor as Jarlaxle tossed a heavy gold coin to the slack-jawed innkeeper and made his exit. For some reason none of the other patrons saw fit to impede his departure.

Entreri watched this performance from where he sat alone at a small table, his back to the wall. The assassin's carefully-schooled features were impassive. Soon the shocked silence in the common room turned to a hubbub, everyone talking at once, and the assassin silently laid a coin on the table beside his empty bowl and slipped unnoticed from the inn.

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><p>The stolen horse he rode was <em>not<em> Princess Moonbeam, a fact that Jarlaxle infinitely regretted as he urged her onward towards militia headquarters, but there was nothing that could be done about that. Still, in some small corner of his mind that wasn't currently being consumed with both rage and grief, it pained him to actually have to put his spurs to her side. They thundered down the main street, dust swirling in white clouds behind them, and the mercenary put the reins in his right hand, pulling a scroll from the purse at his waist with his left. He began to read the runes, which glowed and disappeared as fast as he could pronounce them. The militia barracks were dead ahead. Without hesitation, he spurred the mare onward and they burst through the wooden doors as Jarlaxle read the last line of the scroll. The startled platoon inside was at table, and they had little time to do much more than look up from their soup bowls before an immense fireball was shot into their midst. The dry timbers of the building immediately joined the blaze, and Jarlaxle wheeled and rode out as the roof began to collapse. He did not feel the intense heat at his back. He did not hear the shouts from the squad that had been practicing maneuvers behind the barracks. He did not notice the musket ball that whizzed past his head. He turned his horse's face toward the moor road and the place where Bess had been slain.

Soon the town was left behind and belatedly the Highwayman realized he was pursued. Three separate times musket balls slammed into his body, and his stoneskin protected him, though he barely escaped being unhorsed. The mercenary's aim was much more practiced than that of the militia. He drew his pistols and twisted in the saddle. Two shots, and the squad that pursued him was a squad of six instead of eight. Reloading would be impossible. The pragmatic mercenary dropped the fine weapons in the dust and drew his rapier, urging his horse to greater speeds. He must get to Bess. He must see where she lay. The knowledge that she was dead did not make him question the logic of his course. He would get to her or he would die trying.

Fate seemed to favor the second option. A well-placed musket ball knocked him from the saddle, and a second ball ripped through his side with a searing shock of pain edged in the reaching blackness of unconsciousness. His stoneskin was exhausted. The Highwayman pushed away the blackness from the edges of his vision as he lay on his back on the road. The golden sun pained his sensitive eyes, but the blue sky was beautiful, so beautiful. He watched a bird float by far overhead, imagining himself flying with it. Dazedly, some part of his mind said "_healing potion_." The words seemed meaningless. "_Bess_!" his mind insisted, and that did it. Jarlaxle reached to his belt, wondering belatedly why there was a sticky and wet puddle here, when all the rest of the road had been dry dust. His fingertips skimmed the edge of a potion bottle but he couldn't seem to grasp it. Then the blue sky was blocked out by a knot of soldiers standing around him.

"He's finished."

"And good riddance."

"Too bad all that blood ruined the fancy clothing. I would've liked those boots, myself."

"That set of pistols will be a fine prize for me." It was Tentara who had uttered this, and no one opposed the captain.

"I get his sword," the lieutenant boldly put in, but it was half a question.

Tentara shrugged, uncaring. "Let's throw his body in the moor."

Jarlaxle didn't feel them take him by the arms and legs, but suddenly he was swinging, and then sinking, slowly sinking, into the boggy muskeg. The sky was serenely beautiful, but he was cold, so cold.

"Do you think anyone made it out of the barracks, sir? It's still burning, I can see the smoke from here."

Tentara tore his eyes from the slowly sinking body of the robber and glanced back. "We'd better get back and help out before half the town is gone."

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><p>Jarlaxle found it faintly annoying to have his unobstructed view of the blue sky blocked once again. A man with cold gray eyes was beside him, clutching at him. The man looked vaguely familiar, but it seemed unimportant right now. A moment later, the muskeg closed over the Highwayman's head.<p>

Entreri cursed, hauling Jarlaxle's upper body out of the bog as he struggled to keep afloat himself. They were so close to the road, but he couldn't free them from the irresistible downward pull of the muskeg. With a disgusted sigh the assassin gripped Jarlaxle firmly and twisted a ring on his index finger. With an audible pop, the transportation spell deposited them in a clearing in the woods. "_Waste of a good spell_," Entreri thought, and then uncorked a bottle of healing potion and forced it between Jarlaxle's teeth. The drow gave a gasping cough, and Entreri reached for the next bottle, hoping he had enough.

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><p>AN: In progress. Reviews appreciated! (And yes, it took me an inexcusably long time to get this chapter up...I shall endeavor to do better with the next, and last chapter.)


	9. A Highwayman Comes Riding

Chapter 9: A Highwayman Comes Riding

The first thing Jarlaxle noticed was the light filtering in around a blue-and-white checkered curtain that fluttered in a slight breeze at the window. He squinted against the brightness and turned his head away. It seemed to take a great deal of effort to accomplish this movement. The second thing he noticed was that he lay on a hard and uncomfortable bed, with only one flat pillow beneath him. The third thing he noticed was the scowling assassin in the doorway of the small room.

"Artemis." His voice cracked on the word, after long disuse.

"So, you're finally awake." Entreri closed the door and strode forward, depositing a bowl of chicken broth and a spoon on the nightstand. "Then I expect you can feed yourself as well."

"How-" Jarlaxle winced as his voice cracked again. "How long?"

"Five days." Entreri sat down on a creaky wooden chair beside the bed. "I was about to call a cleric." He looked at the blue-and-white curtain as he said it, not meeting Jarlaxle's eyes. His mouth curled almost into a snarl on the word 'cleric'.

Jarlaxle tentatively stretched his arms and sat up, groaning only slightly. A wide swath of bandages was wrapped around his midsection, and he reached a hand to the bullet wound curiously.

Entreri smacked his hand away before he could complete the motion. "Don't. Touch."

Jarlaxle drew his hand back in surprise. "So, not-so-very healed, then?"

"You have no idea how many times you almost died on me. Or how much I spend on healing potions."

"Artemis, I'm touched! I had no idea I meant so much to you." The drow grinned broadly.

"It would have been a waste of resources to merely let a valuable ally die."

"A valuable ally?" The mercenary's voice held only the faintest hint of teasing.

"Yes." The clipped answer sounded distinctly annoyed.

"Well, I suppose I should consider myself lucky that you still consider me valuable then."

Entreri merely grunted and looked away.

Pleased with himself, Jarlaxle reached for the soup with an unsteady hand, and proceeded to eat it without spilling too much.

"The militia all believe you to be dead. I waited until they were out of sight before teleporting away."

"Well, that's all fine and..." the spoon slipped from Jarlaxle's fingers as he remembered. "Bess."

Entreri's cold gray eyes met the drow's crimson ones. "She had a proper burial, at least. The grave is out behind the old inn."

Jarlaxle carefully set the soup bowl down on the nightstand and said nothing, not trusting himself to speak.

"I went to kill the hostler for you."

"Oh."

"He'd hung himself, from the rafters of the old barn."

"I see."

"Apparently he fancied Bess as well."

"You know nothing of her!" a sudden, cold fury filled Jarlaxle, to hear anyone speak so casually of his lost love.

"No. I don't," Entreri admitted, then dared to ask, "How could you let her affect you so much?"

Jarlaxle wanted to hit him, but he really didn't have the strength. The assassin's question also seemed prompted by genuine curiosity, as opposed to just mocking his pain. The drow looked away. "I hadn't intended to, as you humans say, 'fall in love'. It just happened."

Entreri shook his head. "I never let it happen. If you let someone get that close, it always brings you pain in the end. Always. Better to just keep them away."

"No."

"No?" Entreri's tone was incredulous. "Look at what happened to you, and I don't just mean being shot through the side...you should have heard your delirious, fevered ramblings the last few nights, as though the pain of losing Bess was worse than the pain of your wounds..." He stopped, embarrassed at the awkwardness of admitting that he had heard Jarlaxle's most personal thoughts, brought out by the delirium of fever.

The drow closed his eyes for several moments as he digested this new piece of information. Finally he opened them. What had happened, had happened. Llolth knew what he had muttered in the ravages of fever, but he couldn't take it back now. "It was..." The mercenary tried to find words. "I feel as though something inside of me is missing, and will never be the same again, but it was worth it."

"Worth it?" the assassin shook his head. "I don't understand."

"When we were together it was...wonderful. Carefree. Perfect and beautiful. And I wouldn't give that up just to escape this emptiness and loss that I feel now. I wouldn't trade that, that, _love_," he uttered the strange surface word slowly, "just to avoid this pain."

Entreri fixed him with a silent stare for a long moment. Then he got up without a word and left the room, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

* * *

><p>One moon had passed, and the night was cold and dark. Wind howled through the trees, and strips of cloud covered the face of the moon. It was like the night he had first met her. Jarlaxle dressed carefully in the costume of the Highwayman, freshly laundered but still stained with dark splotches of his own blood. He placed the mask over his face. A spell of ghostly visage had cost him a heavy purse of gold, but he admired the affect as his features turned ethereal and somewhat transparent.<p>

Descending his inn room via the window caused him to catch his breath sharply as his side twinged where the bullet had gone through him. Princess Moonbeam awaited him behind the inn. Jarlaxle mounted, and with a word, they began their ride. The main street of the small town was by no means deserted, despite the harsh weather, and lights burned in most windows. He rode slowly, sedately, and heard the many gasps and whispers behind him. The road was a ribbon of moonlight, looping the purple moor, and now Jarlaxle urged Princess Moonbeam to a run. He saw the silhouetted buildings of the inn in the distance, and felt a tightness in his chest.

Jarlaxle knew he was observed as he knelt by her grave, but he didn't care. He reached out with one ghostly finger and traced the two words there: "Bess. Beloved." He knelt a moment longer, lips moving as he spoke to her silently, and then placed a single red rose on the stone.

The ghostly Highwayman mounted again, wheeled on his fine black mare, and rode off into the night. And they say as he crested the top of the hill, he disappeared.

* * *

><p>AN: Complete. Reviews welcome.


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